


Better This Way

by helena_s_renn



Category: Def Leppard, Music RPF
Genre: Drinking, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23027863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn
Summary: What was he doing here anyway? If Sav was honest, he knew. He was chasing even just a fleeting feeling of the old days, the good days, auld lang syne before hospitals and mental wards and psychotic girlfriends. Back when the band was everything, and their joined bodies' natural high was the best high...
Relationships: Steve Clark/Rick Savage
Kudos: 12





	Better This Way

**Author's Note:**

> The characters portrayed should not be confused with the RL people whose physical appearances these are the idealised versions of. The real Def Leppard have nothing to do with this fictional nonsense. My fics are all written from a place of deepest respect and admiration.
> 
> *This was meant to be posted on the anniversary of Steve's passing on the 8th January but it wasn't ready.
> 
> *Besides rewriting history, it also serves as an intersection between others of my stories.
> 
> *"Fix-it" fics such as this may smack as dishonest (I've never written one before). ...This is just as much wish fulfillment as all the sex and luurve we write to satisfy ourselves—there's some of that in here, too.
> 
> *Cross-posted from Rockfic.

-1990, New Year's Eve

Rager, it was not. Sav's parents didn't host that sort of fête. It was only due to being between relationships that he'd come there at all. If he hadn't been dumped only a few days prior - after the Christmas haul, he assumed in reference to the timing - he might have hit any number of the invites from London, Dublin, and beyond. As it was, he wasn't in the mood to party. So there he sat in a row house in Sheffield, feeling like the swan in the duck pond of the sights and smells and memories of his youth, relatives and neighbors side-eying his accoutrements. 

Just as he was about to head home, the telephone rang. Sav's mum came and found him. They didn't have a cordless yet. "There's a call for you, Richard. I think it's Steve." 

"Thanks, Mum," Sav nodded and took the phone call in the upstairs hallway, his gut clenched tight. After the Hysteria tour had ended, Steve only wanted one thing. Or, the things he wanted all revolved around getting wasted. By now he'd been in and out of rehab multiple times. This last round seemed to have 'stuck' but his six months off was nearly up and Sav had stayed away during the holidays, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Hello?"

There were no preliminaries. "'Lo. Sav, will you drop by?" Steve paused, his only nod to convention. "I need you."

"Why aren't you with your family?"

"Was. We had words. Or he did. All the same bullshit. So I left. Sa-av..." he wheedled like a small child.

Stopping by. It was three hours out of his way. "Alright."

The night was freezing cold, it was late, and the roads were icy. Sav rang the outside buzzer ten times before it buzzed back to let him in.

The building had the chilled, lifeless feel of abandonment. His footsteps echoed in the stairwell. When Steve opened the door to his flat, Sav drew back in shock. He was shirtless and barefoot, a ladder of ribs and stick-thin arms, hair lank, three days stubble darkening the lower half of his face. 

"You holding?" he asked, even before inviting Sav in. 

"No." 

"Aw, you must have something..." 

Sav's ire rose, first at the verbal pat-down and then because it would seem that it was the same-old, same-old all over again. Another chance wasted. "What's the matter, your dealer doesn't work on bank holidays?" he snapped. 

The darkness always just beneath the pale blue of Steve's eyes loomed. "Trying not to fall in with that lot again... just something to take the edge off, Sav, please." 

"If anything were to happen, being busted with that shite in my car? No thanks." All of them had been hassled for the sake of it by law enforcement at some time or other. Sav was sure they had the descriptions of all their cars. Or he was paranoid. 

Finally Steve seemed to remember his manners or feel the cold and stood aside. Sav hesitated. He could see several empty liquor bottles on the coffee table, others partially full. The flat was strewn with guitars propped against furniture and Chinese food cartons, pizza boxes and papers full of Steve's cramped handwriting, but overall it wasn't the disaster area Sav had feared and he didn't spot any paraphernalia. 

"I was about to shower and go to bed, actually. Join me, since you've no chemical joy...? We can make some of our own."

"Steve..." The weak protest died on Sav's lips when Steve's brushed against his, light and airy as an eskimo kiss. 

What was he doing here anyway? If Sav was honest, he knew. He was chasing even just a fleeting feeling of the old days, the good days, auld lang syne before hospitals and mental wards and psychotic girlfriends. Back when the band was everything, and their joined bodies' natural high was the best high.

Steve led him to the bathroom. Odd, Sav thought. The original Steve had been a combination of painful shyness and balls-out daring. One never knew which would manifest. At the beginning, he couldn't even piss in front of anyone else. Other times, he wanted alleyway blowjobs - giving or getting - or to pass groupies around. Sometimes he would barely speak for a week growing hollow-eyed for lack of food and sleep, and hid behind his mike stand on stage. A few shows later, he'd be shirtless and half-hard, strutting and jumping all over the stage, his fine-boned features lit from within with the rush of being held up as an idol, something he never felt he deserved. It was a relief to Sav to find a more subdued, but not shut-down version.

The saying, "I put my pants on one leg at a time" came to Sav's mind. Steve took off his jeans, the only item of clothing he was wearing, and left them pooled on the floor, extracting one foot then the other. Though he'd seen Steve undress hundreds of times, Sav wondered if he'd really seen. He'd always been too in awe of him, too in love with him. 

They did shower, wordless and together. Soap in hand, Steve spent a long time on him, starting with his shoulders and working his way around and down. Sav let him, savouring every lingering touch. Fingers that rimmed his navel found the invisible buttons on his spine that made him hunch and arch. He was moaning aloud before Steve ever touched the hard-risen flesh he had no control over. Sluicing away his leaking juice was pointless, it just drooled more. When Steve turned him around to wash Sav's bum, made him bend so he could thoroughly soap and finger his crack, Sav had to close his eyes and jam the heel of his hand into his balls not to just let go. 

He barely held on through rinsing and then licking, something Steve had done for him maybe twice over the years. Crude, the hot little slip of flesh worshiping his hole. Echoing against tile, Sav's purring was starting to turn into throaty cries but when he reached for himself Steve slapped his arse and stood up. "No, Sav! It's mine tonight to get high on. Put it in me." 

Awkwardly, they switched positions. The necessary break sanded the edge down. Another consideration, "Spit's not going to do," was met with, "You said you'd come... over. I got m'self ready." The questing fingers of Sav's right hand learned the truth of it. 

Sav had never taken risks but that night he did, needing to feel slicked bands of muscle squeezing him tight, the velvet clutch inside. He wanted to watch, to see his rock-hard bare penetration between tiny, perfect cheeks. He wanted them plastered together, one being for a moment in time while he poured out everything. 

Steve never got more than half hard, but he showed other appreciation. His eyes rolled back; his little open-mouthed grunts filled the shower stall. It must have been a mental thing or pressure from the inside that he shot just before Sav. Somehow. A hiss and a few sluggish splashes rubbed out. 

With the taps turned off, they stood goosefleshed and shivering. Sav eyed his clothes strewn about on the bathroom floor but followed Steve to bed. There were more bottles on the bedside tables, a few lit candles on the bureau across the room. Romantic. But not in character. Not with him. What was really going on here? 

"Here, this'll help warm you up." The guitarist held up a litre of vodka, three-quarters empty. He took a long slug, himself. Trying to towel-dry his dripping hair, Sav shook his head and crawled under the rumpled covers. 

They lay close while Steve smoked. He'd never been able to go longer than 20 minutes without. Curled against him, Sav lay an arm across his bony chest, listening to the inhale, exhale and the faint crackle of cigarette paper burning with each drag. 

At long last, Steve stubbed out his smoke and set the ashtray aside. "Why'd you come here?"

"Because you asked me to," Sav replied, a bit stung, "and it's been some time since we've seen each other."

"Feeling guilty?" 

Stunned he'd be called on the carpet though he should know better, Sav managed to reply, "Steve... we've been through this before. I'm worried about you. Can you please see that?"

"Yeah, I know. I'm worried, too. I can't stop, I don't wanna stop." No elaboration on context was needed. Steve's inner demons was an ongoing theme, had been for years, worse since Phil had quit drinking. "I mean, I do but... something in me is fucked up. Nothing matters anymore but the next fix. There've been days... gone. I black out. It scares me. I get the shakes so bad I can barely play anymore, and that's all I have." It had been a long time since Steve had made a speech of any length about the state of things. There'd been many drunken appeals for understanding, apologies, all laced with self-hatred. 

To hear it, Sav felt like he'd been stabbed through several vital organs. "You have us. Me. You could probably have whatever woman you want... We're not broke anymore..."

"It's not enough, never enough... I don't want to spend it all on blow and worse. Now listen to me, I need to tell you something."

"Well, it's something that you're concerned for yourself... What?"

"First, you have to promise you won't tell anyone, and I mean it. Not the rest of Leppard, not your mum, not your priest if you have one." It wasn't in Steve's personality to be stern. This was as close as he came. 

Something in Sav resisted. "That's not fair. If you say you're gonna off yourself or something..." 

"It's important, Sav. I trust you to keep this to yourself. For the rest of your life. Promise." 

From the time he'd considered himself an adult, mid-teens, Sav had never broken a promise, but if it involved Steve's life he would do what he had to with no regrets. He made this choice within himself and finally replied, "Okay, Steve. I won't tell anyone." 

"...I'm going away. Permanently. This money will be put to good use. I'm going to... no I won't say where, but it's far, far north of here, to check myself in. For as long as it takes. They have new ways of doing rehab there. Different medications. Bought a place there, too, for after. Put my money in trust, set up a fake charity. Heh. Me. I've paid through the nose for all that and to fake my own death, down to an autopsy report and a wax replica to bury. Think you can act your way through the farce of my funeral?"

"When did you find time for all this? Just the idea of it makes me want to..." No, he choked down the peristaltic reaction, mind reeling. "What the fuck do you mean, 'permanently'?"

"Got a good solicitor. The best. You'll never see me or hear from me again. Just waiting on my new identity now." In contrast to what he said, Steve's hand rested on Sav's hair, gently petting, and he slid down on the bed a little to face him.

"No, Steve! Surely after a few years--"

"Hush! I need to make a clean break. Go somewhere no one, none of this, can touch me, where no one knows me or of me and I don't know them." 

"No offense but maybe in rural Mongolia they've never heard of Def--" 

There was more. Steve wouldn't let Sav look away. "If you hate me that bad you want to ruin it and my chances to actually live a normal life, quiet and mostly alone but sober, go ahead. Tell people. Tell my family so they can jerk me around and little by little, take everything I worked for... Tell the rest of the band that I won't make it past the end of the next year but okay, they'll get me - uncooperative, clumsy hands and scatterbrain - till then. Tell my girlfriend," Sav winced, "she can have the scraps. Tell yourself that you still want this," Steve gestured at himself, "wreck of the Hesperus that I've become."

To that, Sav had no reply. He shook his head, somehow conveying despair and agreement in the negative gesture.

After a couple more breaths, Steve spoke again, with finality. "When you leave next, that's goodbye. For good. The media will have its day, and in a little while people will forget about me. It's not like I'm Hendrix or Page. There's others around now, it's a long list of established and up-and-coming musicians that'll be better than I ever was. Find one to take my place."

"No one can take your place, Steve. Ever. You should know that. So... You'd really give up playing?" 

Steve shrugged his thin shoulders. "Well, I'm not sure. Can't take my guitars, can I? Can't use my own name. What's the point?"

"Alright, alright. People would think I'd gone barmy if I was the only one holding forth that it was all a lie, anyway," added Sav, wondering if Steve even cared how it would affect him. "You may as well be dead, if you plan to disappear without a trace." 

"Most of my choices have been... horrible." 

"And was I one of those horrible choices?" He had to ask. 

"No, Sav. Not for me. For you, though, I can see it, always could. It's better this way." 

"No..." Sav was cut off by lips covering his, and a slender, so slight one could snap his limbs, body crawling up on him. A leg thrown over his hip, an arm over his ribs. 

"Then have me. Again, here and now. It's nearly morning, and then..." 

"And then it's goodbye?"

"Aye." 

One hand clenched in Sav's hair and the other on his hip, provoking vivid flashbacks that superimposed themselves over the present. He was 22 again, not just turned 30. Thirty, christ, old! 

His body could not be told that, though, that night. He might have been a little rough, flipping Steve onto his back. Hard again despite the hour and circumstances, Sav entertained the blood-rush in his head but otherwise ignored the strain and surge while they stared at each other, kissed and touched. He'd never played with Steve's hair, nor licked his pinkie-nail sized nipples. Never had touched him slack and soft. It hadn't been allowed. Now, what did it matter? Fuck the manly business of stalwart, utilitarian action. 

Once Sav got himself anchored, he unleashed every sensual tendency he possessed. Hips and mouth worked in tandem to fly them high. Not to compel. To stamp and seal in the only way he knew how. At least Steve could have this memory to take with him, for whatever it was worth. 

As a candle or two flickered out, Sav got the feeling that it was all for him, for his memories. He cried out in release and pain. Below, Steve's eyes were closed and he kissed the eyelids, putting his lips where no coins should rest for a thousand years.

At five AM, still pitch black outside, he crept to the loo to find his clothes and dress himself. Steve slept on; even out of earshot Sav imagined he heard each breath. Outside, his car stuttered to life in the cold. It took everything he had to drive away. As usual, there were obligations to attend to. The new album, first and foremost. They couldn't live off Pyro and Hysteria forever. It wasn't easy staying fit in the winter, in the studio, all of them already walking on eggshells. It had been two-and-a-half years since the last hit song, and the pressure was mounting.

In the next few days, Sav hadn't a clue if Steve was serious. He had sounded it, with the level of detail and planning. Or it could have been some sort of delusion - on either of their parts. Or he'd dreamed it. The temptation to pick up a phone or return to the flat needled his mind, awake, asleep, dreaming. He didn't. 

A week later, the call came in. 

The first test came swiftly.

Deep under stygian shadows born of that night, he buried the secret. For the sake of Steve's life and the promise he'd extracted, Sav kept it locked up tight, the façade so well in place that he began to believe it himself. Less chance he'd give it away with a slip of the tongue, arse-deep in some bout of drunken melancholia. 

It was better that way. 

Fin.


End file.
